


They Really, Really Shouldn't Be Paying Me For This

by Giveadogabone



Series: They Really Shouldn't Be Paying Me For This [2]
Category: Baby-Sitters Club - Ann M. Martin
Genre: Disturbing Themes, F/F, Lolicon, Statutory Rape, reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-09 21:18:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10421964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giveadogabone/pseuds/Giveadogabone





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [This is Not Babysitting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/333802) by [Alsike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alsike/pseuds/Alsike). 



She's twelve. She's twelve. She's twelve. You repeat it like a litany to yourself. You're sixteen, and she's twelve. You need constant reminders, because she doesn't look or act like any twelve-year-old you've ever met.

Her parents have made a grave error. They went on a weekend-long trip, and they asked you to stay over at their house with her while they're gone. Their error was made out of ignorance. They have no idea the turmoil your mind is in. Your error, accepting, was much more egregious. But you were a bit ignorant as well. You hadn't seen her in months since they finally realized she doesn't need a babysitter anymore, and time had dulled the memory of what she does to you, how she destroys every ounce of self-control you thought you had. That, and she has somehow grown even more beautiful since the last time you saw her.

But she's twelve. She has the innocent thoughts of a twelve-year-old, no matter how grown-up she looks. She doesn't know. She doesn't know that when she walks around in those short shorts, you have to repeatedly force yourself to stop staring at her legs. She doesn't realize that when she bends over like that, you have to clench your hands until your palms bleed to keep from grabbing her. She doesn't understand that when she's cuddling with you on the couch, just like you used to do so innocently once upon a time, your trembling has nothing to do with the temperature, and everything to do with your quickly eroding higher brain functions. It's not her fault you've become like this, and you can't make her pay the price for your failings as a human being.

Or so you thought. But then her head, which had been resting innocuously on your chest, tilts upward, and her lips are on yours, and even though your brain is feverish from living a moment you've always thought would remain a fantasy, you're pretty sure you didn't initiate this. And then the kiss deepens, and you feel her tongue in your mouth, yes that's right, her tongue in your mouth, not the other way around, and her hand slip under your shirt and bra, and her palm cupping your breast, and her fingers tweaking your nipple, and that's the end of your self-control.

It doesn't matter anymore whether or not she knows what she's doing. It doesn't matter that she can't possibly be held responsible for this. It doesn't matter that you're committing a crime, and not just any crime, one of the most disgusting crimes imaginable, the kind of crime that would make you instantly hate the perpetrator with a passion, maybe even hate them to death. A different kind of passion has you in its grip now, and there is no room for anything else. It will matter later, you know. Later, when your mind has been cleansed of this overwhelming desire, you'll have time for regret for this moment, fear for the future, self-recriminations and self-hatred. But right now, your mind is filled with only her, removing her clothes, your hands roaming across her body, her pink flesh on your lips, and your name on hers. 

It is strange, though, that here, lost in the throes of desire, where guilt and regret cannot reach you, where the very idea of the existence of consequences is foreign, with the fingers of one hand deep inside yourself where they've been many times, and the fingers of the other and your lips in a place they never should've gone, that one thought full of irony and smacking just a little bit of repentance somehow manages to break though: They really, really, really, REALLY shouldn't be paying me for this.


End file.
